
* «£ 



• >.> 



k "» + i 



■w 



V« <*> A * •> 









• ^ 






vv 



v ^* 



1 • A Vv ^ J 







A°« . 







V & % ' 






V>' 



r\" J* % a .W.' 4 y ^ 





«s-°* . 



V'^V .^' 




•fet? 



J- ^*, 







% *+ 



£% 







<> *^. 



























O N O 






.*'>. an?r.° ^>, \wm?: *&"** 



vV«* 












iP^ 




«4<3* 








.4°* 





°^ *•«•' 








.4°* 







.H<2* 










ETERNITY, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY 

HIRAM O. WILEY. 



SALEM : 

PUBLISHED BY THE SALEM PRESS. 
1874. 



PS 



3^ 



PRINTED AT 
THE SALEM PRESS. 

F. W. PUTNAM & CO., 

Proprietors. 






J\ 



PEEFACE, 



CX ilRAM 0. WILEY, the author of the poems col- 
YY lected in this volume, was born at Middlebury, 
& V Vermont, May 20, 1831. When about sixteen 
years of age he removed to Danvers, Massachusetts, 
where he was employed for several years in the manufac- 
ture of shoes. Not content with this occupation, he 
applied himself to the study of law, and in 1855 was 
admitted to the Bar. 

Since that time he has resided, and practised law, in the 
town of Peabody, giving no inconsiderable share of his 
attention to literature. For a few years he was editor of 
the "Essex Statesman." He died after a brief illness, 
January 28, 1873. 

Mr. Wiley endeared himself to his friends by his social 
qualities, and they will not soon forget either the gener- 
osity of his disposition or his imperturbable good humor. 
This volume is a selection of the more serious of his 
poems, scattered through the files of newspapers and 
other publications. The volume is published, at the sug- 
gestion of many friends, as a scanty memorial of one who 
was in many respects a remarkable man, and of whom, 
under more propitious circumstances, high expectations 
might have been entertained. 



January, 1874. 



CONTENTS 



Page. 

Eternity, 7 

Dust, 9 

Life, 10 

The Final Rest, 12 

Would I were a Monk, 15 

Restlessness, 16 

He leads us on, 18 

Questions, 19 

Concerning Fish, 21 

Song of the Chickadee, 22 

Whence cometh Help, 23 

A Rest Remaineth, 24 

My Creed, 26 

Wealth, 31 

Youth and Age, 32 

Father Ignatius, . . 34 

Life, 37 

The Social Pest, 38 

Lines to a Friend, 40 

Thanksgiving Hymn, 42 

Man, 43 

To a Friend, 45 

Just One Fault, 47 

My Thought, 48 

Trust, 50 

Dot and the Fairies, 51 

Out in the Cold, 52 

It may be, 54 

Memories, 56 

The Winds, 58 

v 



VI 



Page. 

59 
A Man's Life, 

Somebody, 

The Winds, 

The Poet's Art, ™ 

Midsummer, 

The Poor Attorney, 

The New Year, 1873, ll 

Shadows, 

Memorial Hymn, 

My Mother, 

. . 76 
Frank Upton, 

Prank Poole, 

Danvers, M. F. D., ™ 

Mary Pope, 

The Peabody Fountain, 



E T E R N I T. Y . 

Q SOMBRE, vast eternity ! 
What has been and what is to be — 
The past and future merge in thee. 

I think of thee with nameless dread ; 
Thy roots enwrap the eldest dead ; 
Thy boughs of green wave overhead. 

I cannot grasp thee with my thought ; 
The works that all the years have wrought 
In thy calm presence are as nought. 

The keenest vision cannot trace 
One sign of change upon thy face ; 
I shudder in thy cold embrace. 



(7) 



8 



I wrestle with thy mystery — 
What has been and what is to be— 
There comes no answer back to me. 

The ages that have through thee rolled 
Some fables or some truths have told, 
But thou art calm and still and cold. 

A child I stand upon the shore ; 

I hear afar the billows roar 

That break and break forevermore. 

No shore thy current ever laves ; 
No echo comes from out the caves 
Wherein recede thy ceaseless waves. 

There are no furrows on thy brow ; 
Cycles of time before thee bow, 
Thou changeful and unchanging now. 

O gloomy, grand eternity ! 

The loved and lost are all with thee ! 

Some barren years are left to me ! 



DUST. 

TT)UST upon the ceiling, 

Dust upon the floor, 
Dust upon the books and shelves, 

Dust forevermore ; 

Creeping through each crevice, 
Where no light can fall, 

Floating through the casement, 
Sifting over all. 

Nothing so protected 

But the dust is there, 
Covering with its mantle 

Table, desk and chair ; 

Dust of wasted moments, 

Dust of solemn years, 
Dust that deepens, deepens, 

And rifever disappears ; 



10 

On the shelf and wainscot, 
Window bars and wall, 

Dust conies sifting, sifting, 
With its stealthy fall ; 

Dust that deepens, deepens, 
As each moment wears ; 

Dust of weary winters, 
Dust of solemn years ; 

Dust of all the by-gone 
On our hearts shall lay, 

Till the breath of heaven 
Blows the dust away. 



LIFE. 

r\ LIFE ! is thy large promise vain 
Of ripened shocks, of bearded grain? 
Do thy hard husks no fruit contain ? 



11 

We meet no welcome at thy gate ; 
For weary years we watch and wait ; 
Find little love and much of hate. 

We float along the gliding stream, 
And in its depths, as in a dream, 
We see unnumbered jewels gleam. 

The limpid waters pass them by, 
Their lustre mocks the wistful eye — 
No plummet reaches where they lie. 

We climb the steeps with painful care, 
Eeach some ideal, passing fair, 
And then we clasp — the empty air. 

O Life ! I know thee here and now 

As cold and hard. What bringest thou 

A hardened heart, a furrowed brow ? 

2k. 2k. 2k. 2k. 2k. 2k. 2k. 

^r 7pr 7$? Ttc if? "7f? 7pr 

O Life ! thy promise is not vain, 
Thy toil, thy travail and thy pain 
Are but the seeds of future gain. 



12 

O Life ! thou art not life ; we see 
But proofs of life that is to be, 
Far stretched as vast eternity ! 



THE FINAL REST. 



SHALL lie down some sunny day to sleep — 
Upon my mother's bosom I shall lay 
This throbbing heart and aching head to rest ; 
No more shall love or hope my bosom heave, 
Nor dreams shall there disturb my deep repose, 
But I shall lie and sleep — so calmly sleep, 
That the loud noises of this busy world 
Shall not disturb my slumbers calm and deep, 
More than the leaf's complaining rustle. 
Kingdoms and monarchies may round me rise, 
And mighty empires crumble into dust, 
And all that man calls great and noble fade ; 
Ah, and the mountains grim that pierce the clouds, 



13 

And rest the heavens on their granite scalps, 
May, by the action of the wind and rain, 
All silently to the plain be crumbled ! 
Aye, and the valleys calm that lie between, 
Great nature may in her convulsive throes, 
Lift to the clouds higher than highest Alps ! 
Yet all unmindful I shall slumber on, 
Nor heed this ceaseless war of elements 
That round me reigns. 

Suns shall rise and set — 
The calm tide of ages shall flow o'er me, 
Bearing its freight of human hopes and fears 
To that unfathomed sea that knows no shore, 
Whose voiceless roar no echo dares to mock ; 
Yet the soft lapse of years I shall not heed, 
Or note the ages as they come and go, 
For my great Mother, Nature, on her breast 
Shall lay her weary children ; her wild wind-harp 
Around my head shall play its sweetest airs, 
And breathe its softest notes to calm my slumber 
deep. 



14 

Summer shall round me cast her mantle green, 

And fairy fingers plant the wild rose there ; 

The sober ocean and each inland sea 

Shall load the silver clouds with the light dews, 

To bid the violet and daisy bloom, 

And all that time I, 'neath a bed of flowers, nia} r 

sleep. 
And though alone I lay me down to rest, 
Others upon the desert waste of time, 
When they have learned the bitterness of life, 
How hollow all its vain ambitions are — 
How they in utter loneliness must walk, 
Even amid its teeming throngs of life, 
Then shall they envy me my deep repose — 
Shall come and lay them by my side to sleep ; 
And thou among the rest, when thou hast drained 
Even to its dregs, the bitter cup of life, 
Shall seek a Lethe for thy many woes — 
Then shalt thou woo the soft embrace of death. 



15 



WOULD I WERE A MONK. 

TXTOULD I were a monk, in cloister old, 

Some cloister far away ; 
A cowled monk, who his beads had told, 

Till his locks were thin and gray ; 
On whom the world had lost its hold — 
Would I were a monk, in cloister old. 

Would I were a monk, with cloistered heart, 

That never of feeling told ; 
One that at love nor hope should start, 

Heart to human softness cold ; 
Bound to none by affection's art — 
Would I were a monk, with cloistered heart - 

A bearded monk, in some cloister old, 
Whom deep passion ne'er could thrill ; 

Over whose heart waves had rolled 
The waters of good and ill, 

Till it was calm, and still, and cold — 

Would I were a monk in some cloister old. 



16 

RESTLESSNESS. 

A LL nature is a strife, 
For being or for breath ; 
And ever new-born life 
Is battling with death. 

Of stillness or of peace 
We may not taste a part, 

Until at last shall cease 

The throbbings of the heart. 

Of all created things 

There's nothing standeth still ; 
There are no folded wings — 

All things work good or ill. 

The tireless ocean breaks 

Not twice on the same shore ; 

Ev'n so our being takes 
New forms for evermore. 



17 

The world wears on apace, 
The new grows rounder yet, 

Each day brings some new face, 
Some other we forget. 

There is no listless calm, 
There is no still repose, 

There is no healing balm 
That can assuage our woes. 

In all this ceaseless change 

Is ever present pain ; 
From hope to fear we range, 

Until at last we gain 

Those heights, from which we see 

Our being was not lent 
For aimless liberty, 

Or passionless content. 

We may not ask respite, 
We may not hope for rest, 

We dream that this is right, 
We say that that is best. 



18 

We find no solid shore, 

We darkly feel about, 
And ever, evermore, 

Comes in the old, old doubt. 

On through the whirling years, 
The way all men have trod, 

Through laughter, strife and tears ; 
The end is known to God. 



HE LEADS US ON. 



HPTE leads us on, 
By paths we did not know. 
Upwards He leads us, though our steps be slow, 
Though oft we faint and falter on the way, 
Though storms and darkness oft obscure the day ;- 

Yet when the clouds are gone 

We know He leads us on. 



19 



He leads us on 
Through the unquiet years ; 
Past all our dream-lands, hopes, and doubts and 

fears 
He guides our steps. Through all the tangled maze 
Of sin, of sorrow, and o'er clouded days, 

We know His will is done, 

And still He leads us on. 

And He, at last, 
After the weary strife, 
After the restless fever we call life, 
After the dreariness, the aching pain, 
The wayward struggles which have proved in vain, 

After all our toils are past, — 

Will give us rest at last. 



QUESTIONS. 



TXTHY should I not lie down and rest? 
'Tis useless striving for the best. 



20 

If no high point we gain at last, 
What shall compensate for the past ? 

For all the weariness and strife, 
The burden we have made of life ? 

Unto our souls what shall we say, 
When we have wrought our little day, 

And find, of all that doth remain, 
So much of chaff — so little grain? 

Our burdens down we might have laid, 
And rested hrthe cool and shade ; 

Or, careless wandering day by day, 
Found wine and honey by the way. 

Quiet is all we hoped to win, — 
Quiet from toil and pain and sin. 

Why should I not lie down and rest ? 
'Tis hopeless striving for the best. 



21 



CONCERNING FISH. 

T^HE fish they live down in the water, 

With never a house or a bed ; 
To keep themselves warm in the winter, 

They have not so much as a shed. 

And they lie around loose in the summer, 
When the people on land are at work ; 

In fact, ma'am, the very best codfish 
That ever you ate, was a shirk. 

The salmon who go up the river, 

For idleness cannot be beat, 
And yet, when they're purchased for dinner, 

They cost more than commonplace meat. 

They do not contribute to missions, 

They pay not a cent of a tax, 
Except when imported from Scotia, 

The same as a grindstone or axe. 



22 

The trout who play round in the brooklets, 
Awaiting their turn to be hooked, 

Don't earn the fourth part of a penny, 
Until in pork fat they are cooked. 

Why all of these fish were created, 
By no man is quite understood ; — 

And yet, for one course at a dinner, 
By all it is said, they are good. 

I fear that I'm like to a codfish — 

I feel that I live and I grow, 
But just what I'm good for whilst living, 

To tell the plain truth — I don't know. 



SONG OF THE CHICKADEE. 

T OOK up, look up at me 
Sitting here in this tall tree, 
Singing my song — Chick-a-dee-dee. 



23 

'Tis little that I have to say, 
I wear a suit of sober gray, 
Live by my wits as best I may. 

I soar not high, I am not fleet, 
The songs I sing are not so sweet 
As those of other birds I meet, 

And yet, who knows but there may be 
A bird upon some other tree 
Who loves to listen unto me ? 



WHENCE COMETH HELP. 

AS I looked at the low fleeting clouds, 
I said that it surely would rain ; 
The morning which blushed in the sunshine 
Proved all of my prophecies vain. 



24 



I looked at the shadows around me : 
My heart it was heavy with care ; 

The burdens of life that I carried, 

Seemed greater than mortal could bear. 

But somewhat the burdens were lightened, 
In ways I did not understand ; 

The soreness and aching were softened 
And soothed by the Good Father's hand. 

I said : When the waves break around me, 
I'll gather my strength from above, 

And rest in the Infinite Wisdom, 
Which dwells with ineffable love. 



A REST REMAINETH. 

" JJIS rest"— it may not be 
A rest from labor or a rest from pain. 

When we His rest shall enter finally 
Our robes may have some stain. 



25 



Some evil yet may dwell 

In souls most white. It may not be that all 
Are safe. Of old some of the angels fell, 

And Gabriel may fall. 

The Father worketh still ; 

In pain the worlds still keep their solemn rounds ; 
To overcome, there ever may be ill ; 

Who shall to good, set bounds? 

The battle with our sins ! 

It may be, even with the saintliest, 
That the eternal conflict but begins 

On entering His rest. 

His rest, is rest in faith 

That none of all good work can fail, 
That over all our foes, and over death, 

At last we shall prevail. 



26 



MY CREED. 

T SHALL not speak in sounding phrase 
Of what concerns but Kings and States ; 

In life's low ebb I spend my days, 
And leave great matters to the fates. 

I walk along the common road 

Of common life, with common men ; 

With humble folk is my abode — 
These are my only kith and kin. 

I care but little how may thrive 

The mushroom tinkers of the State, 

Where small men win, though great men strive, 
The fates well knowing who can wait. 

Nor care I for the jarring creeds ; 

The wars of parties vex not me ; 
I satisfy my humble needs, 

Content to please but two or three. 



27 

The work of raising human life 
To higher planes, has just begun ; 

The smoke and bustle of the strife, 
Conceal how little yet is done. 

The world wags on the same old way, 

Change works but little through the years ; 

In ordered course day follows day, 

With lights and shadows, smiles and tears. 

The hopeful say "The night is gone," 
Pointing to some triumphant cause ; 

"The day of freedom journeys on, 
Of equal rights, of purer laws." 

Good friends, it may be this is so ; 

But what is freedom ? what is right ? 
The preacher does not truly know, 

The wisest has so little light. 

The long results why should I wait, 
My freedom or my right to gain ? 

More in myself than in the State, 
I find the wrong, the sin, the pain. 



28 

Why should I chase, with aching feet, 
The phantom of some hopeful cause ? 

The ills which every day I meet, 

Spring not from government or laws. 

Some men may call me selfish, base, 
Because I join not in their schemes 

Of raising up some downcast race, 

And have no part in their wild dreams 

Of making perfect, fallen man, 

By legislation or by creeds : 
I more believe in that old plan 

Which counts on charitable deeds, 

Performed in silence, when the right 

Hand knows not what the left hath done - 

Not blazoned in the garish light 
Of noon and the unblushing sun. 

With charities for distant shores 
The debt of mercy is not paid, 

When Lazarus, eaten of his sores, 
O Dives, at thy gate is laid ! 



29 

And so I strive with careful heed 
To glean, if but a single sheave ; 

For me the humble lightning deed ! 
The thunder of applause I leave 

To those who court the loud acclaim 

Of men, to erring ever prone, 
And hope for something known as fame, 

When heart, and hope and life are flown. 

I know it is but commonplace 

To moralize on life and death — 
What boots it though a little space 

Of air, be ruffled by the breath 

Of some great mob, which shouts the name 
Of one who yesterday was clay ? 

To-morrow he shall be the same, 
None weeping that he passed away. 

Small is the difference which lies 

'Twixt great and small. All men are peers 
To the stern fates, whose sleepless eyes 

Count the few sands of all our years. 



30 

Then why should I disturb my mind, 
And vex my soul with ceaseless pain, 

In seeking what I shall not find ? 
In strife for what I cannot gain ? 

The wise man saith, "Beneath the sun 
Is nothing new, is nothing old ;" 

And in the life of every one, 
This tale of efforts vain, is told ! 

And yet I trust, with simple faith, 
No promise of the soul is vain — 

That life is even more than death, 
And love is stronger far than pain ! 

That I, at some predestined time — 
Or soon, or late, no one may tell — 

In some far purer, sunnier clime, 

Shall meet mine own, and know them well. 

And so, when days are fair and bright, 
' I take with thanks wliat good is sent, 
And through the tempest and the night, 
I walk in sorrowful content. 



31 



WEALTH. 

[~ ORD Herford he has houses, lands ; 

Of the whole village owns the fee ; 
Draws wealth from many toiling hands ; 

His bulging ships plough every sea. 
To factories tall and lowly meads, 
Lord Herford holds the title deeds. 

He hears the car upon the plain, 
The ceaseless hum of busy mills ; 

He hears the rustling of the grain, 
And cattle lowing on the hills ; 

And stores and well-filled barns does see, 

And says, "All these belong to me." 

And yet Lord Herford is not rich, 

Though incomes wax and rents increase, 

His title deeds he cannot stretch 
To cover one short hour of peace. 

Nor yet with all his wealth, control 

That small domain — a miser's soul. 
2 



32 

For he whose soul is fenced about 
By gnawing avarice, care and sin, 

Which keepeth God's glad sunlight out, 
And lets all shades of evil in, 

Is very poor, though wealth untold 

In bonds and scrip his hands may hold. 

And he is rich past earthly needs, 
Although his stores are very small, 

Who shows through kindly acts and deeds 
That he is servant unto all ; 

Who walks abroad in calm content, 

Repaying what to him was lent. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 



H^HE world is apt to blame itself, 
And of itself say, it is cold, — 

That thrifty ways and love of pelf 
Harden our hearts as we grow old. 



33 

And most men say that blooming youth, 
When life is ripening toward its prime, 

Is far more open to the truth, 
More gen'rous than in after time. 

And yet I hold that waxing years, 

And loads we carry on the road, 
Leave in our eyes far kindlier tears, 

And make our hearts more soft and broad. 

Up to high noon, the lusty sun 

Smites the parched earth with piercing rays, 
But when his course is almost run, 

He warms us through the mellowing haze. 

The fiercest bigots have not seen 

The top of life ; but, lush and strong, 

Life's fruits they gather crude and green, 
Nor ever dream they may be wrong. 

But age grows cautious and more wise, 

And, having fallen oftentimes, 
Looks with more charitable eyes 

On the mistakes of those who climb. 



34 



Through years of toil, by cares oppressed, 
The true man grows more strong and mild, 

Enters at last upon his rest, 
With heart like as a little child. 



FATHER IGNATIUS. 



"ppATHER Ignatius was a man devout, 
Who said his prayers as often as he could ; 

Seldom it was that he was seen without 
A piece of the true cross or holy wood. 

The father told his beads hour after hour, 
And preached against the vanities of dress ; 

Yet though he preached with spirit and with power, 
The world in this regard sinned none the less. 

He wore a shirt of very coarsest serge — 
Thinking thereby to mortify the flesh ; 

And with sharp thongs ofttimes himself would 
scourge, 
To keep the wounds he made acute and fresh. 



35 



The pride of life by him was much abhorred ; 

He beauty shunned as but a snare to evil ; 
Tradition says not that he loved the Lord, 

It only tells us how he feared the devil. 

One night, when keeping vigils in his cell, 
The father had a vision strange and new ; 

He oftentimes had glimpses caught of hell, 

But this was of the earth, and hence more true. 

Ignatius' eyes were opened and he saw 

How the Great Father sought the pure and fair ; 

How, through the workings of each subtile law, 
His order brought forth beauty everywhere. 

With what soft tenderness kind nature tries 
To cover up decay and hide all loss ; 

Her barren places keeps from searching eyes 
With tufted grasses, and slow creeping moss. 

How love ineffable, with kindly art, 
And wisdom infinite, together wrought, 

That sweetness might abide in every part, 

And pain be banished even from man's thought. 



36 



How all uncomeliness, and how all pain 
Were born of evil, — children were of sin ; 

That no deformity, no outward stain, 
But first or last had counterpart within. 

Next morn the father put away his gown, 
And into many pieces broke his scourge ; 

He banished from his brow the accustomed frown, 
And in the fire he put his shirt of serge. 

He dressed himself, as was the fashion then 
With men of fine and cultivated taste ; 

He left his cell and came not back again, 
And never more did the good father fast. 

And he no pleasure ever sought to mar, 
And he on naught of beauty placed a ban ; 

But in the world around him and its jar, 

He lived the life that God breathed into man. 



37 



LIFE. 

T\7~E are as flakes of Winter's snow ; 
From whence we came we do not know, 
Or whither go. 

Above us the blue heavens bend, 
We dream of something, as the end, 
Toward which we tend. 

Not knowing what that end may be, 
We grope through darkness wearily, 
And think we see. 

The rains descend, the mists arise, 
Our knowledge of what round us lies, 
Is but surmise. 

Like bubbles on a running stream, 
Our wayward, fitful, troubled dream, 
Where things but seem. 



38 

With vain regrets each day is rife, 
With care, and weariness, and strife ,- 
This we call life. 



THE SOCIAL PEST. 



~\7f7"HY was this creature made ? 
God knows. 
Of human form, endowed with mind, 
He gropes about among his kind, 
In evil, wise ; to goodness, blind ; 

Why was this creature made ? 

Why does this creature live? 
God knows. 
We only know this much, that he 
Walks the green earth, and does not see 
Aught to commend, from man to tree. 

Why does this creature live? 



39 

Why does this creature live ? 
God knows. 
He deals in jibes and sharp replies ; 
Meek, mild-eyed truth before him flies ; 
He speaks — a reputation dies ; 

Why does this creature live ? 



Why does this creature live ? 
God knows. 
The children, in their careless play, 
Hear his cold laugh, and are not gay ; 
All innocent mirth has flown away ; 

Why does this creature live ? 

Why does this creature live ? 
God knows. 
He gloateth on the vile and base — 
For all of loveliness and grace 
A scorn is writ upon his face. 

Why does this creature live ? 



40 • 

Why does this creature live ? 
God knows. 
He can revile, denounce and sneer ; 
His tongue of poison all men fear ; 
None doth he love, none doth he cheer ; 

Why does this creature live ? 

Why does this creature live ? 
God knows 
Why all do live, who live by guile ; 
Why serpents live, and insects vile ; 
On good and ill the heavens do smile ; 

Let this poor creature live. 



LINES TO A FRIEND. 



A SINGLE leaf, a single line, 
Where fancy, wit and wisdom shine, 
Were worth whole tomes of rhymes like mine. 



41 



One man of sense, who grandly schools 
His own rich heart to wisdom's rules, 
Is worth a continent of fools. 

A single smile, from one held dear, 
That comes the waiting heart to cheer, 
Is worth the sunshine of a year. 

The goodness that in man doth dwell, 
The worth of one who loveth well, 
Is all the wisdom earth can tell. 

A single friend the heart can trust, 
Of gentle soul and judgment just, 
Outweighs Golconda's diamond dust. 

O, friend of mine, the days that were, 

Of disappointed hope and care — 

Are through thy friendship made more fair. 

Though I have trod a toilsome way, 
By false illusions led astray, 
Made idols but to find them clay ; 



42 

Though hoped-for pleasure proved a cross, 
And fancied gold turned out but dross, 
Since thou art found, there is no loss. 

Far in this world of toil and pain, 
He hath not struggled all in vain, 
Who but one worthy friend doth gain. 



THANKSGIVING HYMN. 

TXTE offer thanks, and songs and praise, 
Yet do not know Thy ways. 

The times are in Thy hands, but we 
Thy purpose may not see. 

We catch but glimpses of Thy light 
Through our dim misty night. 

Yet though we know we are but dust, 
Still in calm faith we trust. 



43 

Believing that some great good Soul 
Illumes and holds the whole ; 

That all our toil and strife and pain 
In the far end is gain ; 

And that the great, good Infinite, 
Works what is pure and right ; 

So, standing face to face with death, 
We thank Thee for our faith. 



MAN. 

Q MOTHER earth what length of years 

Thou takest to bring forth a man ! 
With our low aims, our idle fears, 
We may not count ourselves his peers 
Moulded upon thy larger plan. 



44' 



We grovel on in beaten ways, 

Doing as men have done before, 
Walk amid nature's grand displays, 
Count one by one our fleeting days, 
Eat, drink and sleep and ask no more. 

Yet, answering to our highest needs, 
There cometh to us, now and then, 
A great and kingly man of deeds — 
Unfettered by our narrow creeds — 

To show us what earth might have been. 

Earth might have been, were men but wise 

And kindly hearted, like to those 
Who look with ever pitying eyes, 
From out the blue o'er-bending skies, 
Upon her many pains and woes. 

Save by the help of kings and seers, 

To higher planes men do not climb ; 
What worth are all the barren years, 
When hero, saint, nor sage, appears 
In the long, level lapse of time ? 



45 

Some Moses, through each wilderness, 
The erring tribes of men must lead ; 
They wander, till in weariness, 
In thirst, in hunger and distress, 

Their Prophet's voice at last they heed. 

They follow, and the little clan 

Becomes an empire, strong and great, 

Of all earth's nations in the van, 

Only to show us that a man 
Is vastly greater than a State. 



TO A FRIEND. 



~V\7"H0 would not give one-half the good 
One strives for in this world below, 

Only to find one human soul 

Such as we dreamed of, long ago ? 



46 

One that serenely on its way 

Has kept its faith with holy trust, 

That has not bowed to sordid aims, 
Or trailed its garments in the dust ? 

Who would not give the long results, 
Of years of sin, of toil and pain, 

Only to live one little day 

Of life's young promise o'er again ? 

One day of trust, and hope and strength, 
Of light on grass, and flower and tree, 

With men who walk the kings of earth, 
And all which seemed, should truly be? 

0, friend of mine ! J know that all 
Is not a dream — we hoped to win ; 

And souls like thine help to recall 

The fairy world, that "might have been." 



47 



JUST ONE FAULT. 

XXE was not blind, he was not halt, 
Was large of heart and sound of head, 

And yet he had one single fault 
And so by every one 'twas said. 

So all men dropped him from their books 
And counted him among the bad, 

The women gave unpleasant looks 
To him who this one failing had. 

Yet much I envy that poor man, 
And like him I would gladly be ; 

And would be like him under ban, 
If I were faultless as was he. 

And much we ought to thank the Lord — 
Who made us mostly blind and halt, 

That he such grace on one has poured 
That he had but a single fault. 



48 



MY THOUGHT. 

TT goes and comes again, 

Born of no skill or art ; 
A something that is not of me, 

Yet of myself a part. 

It struggles onward still, 

By day and in the night ; 
I know not whence it comes — 

This fitful gleam of light. 

It knows all that I know — 

It sees all that I see — 
From out the waste of formless things, 

How came it unto me ? 

The master ever more 

Of this unquiet mind, 
I feel its coming, as the trees 

Theorising of the wind. 



49 

I know not where it dwelt — 
What kindled first the flame : 

I know not what its courses are, 
Or why to me it came. 

It wandereth abroad 

In ever earnest quest ; 
Or when I wake, or when I sleep, 

It will not be at rest. 

Doubtless from some far realm, 
A messenger, 'twas sent 

To draw me from the easy paths 
Of passionless content. 

So humbly let me trust, — 

In years that are to be, 
I well shall know that perfect love 

Hath sent it unto me. 



50 



TRUST. 

J^ LITTLE while, a little while, 

The violets bloom, 

The roses smile, 
But only for a little while. 

A day, a year, of good or ill, 

Time strikes the hour, 

And all is still ; 
What matter though 'twere good or ill ? 

The nearest things we cannot see, 

'Tis dark to you, 

'Tis dark to me, 
'Tis better that we cannot see. 

Upon a pathless ocean tossed, 

Where least we know 

We trust the most ; 
'Tis better so — or all were lost. 



51 



DOT AND THE FAIRIES. 

"TV/TY Dot stood under the apple tree, 
With flakes of brown in her golden hair, 

And the sun looked down, and smiled to see 
The beautiful picture standing there. 

And I looked at Dot, and thought I knew 

That her mind was vexed with some grave doubt : 

She wondered if all the tales were true 
Of fairy folk, I'd told her about. 

And I almost thought I heard her say, 
" Where can the fairies and elfins be? 

They visit little girls every day, 

Why do not some of them visit me? 

There must be fairies up in the wood, 
Under the clover leaves, or the rose ; 

They do no harm, but do lots of good — 
For papa says so, and papa knows." 



52 



And thus — always thus — my Dot will dream, — 
Though hard be life and unkind the fates, 

That somewhere hid, by hill or by stream, 
The sweet and beautiful for her waits. 

And thus all the years will sweeter grow 

For dreaming of dreams, though false as fair : 

Better for us that we do not know 
Our " castles in Spain" are empty air. 



OUT IN THE COLD. 

OUT in the cold, Jenny, out in the cold, 
Hoping and waiting for many a day, 

A fighting the shadows and growing old ; 

Counting our steps o'er the long, dreary way, 

Out in the cold, Jenny, out in the cold. 



53 

What is the good, Jenny, what is the good? 

Heart-ache and weariness, peril and strife, 
Beaten and farrowed by tempest and flood, 

How we do cling to this thing we call life, — 
What is the good, Jenny, what is the good ? 

What is the good, Jenny, what is the good? 

To-morrow the same as to-day shall be ; 
Still we must struggle and pray but for food, 

What have the years brought to you and to me ? 
What that is good, Jenny, what that is good? 

Yet, Jenny, why murmur, why should we com- 
plain ? 
For hid in the darkness, and shrouded in night, 
Is infinite goodness — and sorrow and pain 

Are some of the pathways that lead to His 
light — 
Then why should we murmur, why should we com- 
plain ? 



54 

Out of the cold, Jenny, out of the cold, 
Out of the sorrow, the terrors, and sin, 

Through doubts and temptations so manifold, 
Our Father's hand is but leading us in, 

Out of the cold, Jenny, out of the cold. 



IT MAY BE. 

TX/TE know not what becomes of man- 
We cannot tell from whence he came : 

'Tis said that life is but a span — 
It may be life is but a name. 

It may be that this solid earth 
Is nothing, and does only seem, 

And that our birth was not a birth, 
And that we only dream we dream. 



55 

It may be ; for all things may be, 
Or not be : who of us can guess 

If all be real that we see, 
Or all be utter emptiness? 

It may be that this earth and stone, 
And wide expanse of viewless air, 

Comprise the universe alone, 
And Spirit is not — anywhere. 

And yet a time there may have been 
When earth was not, nor land, nor sea ; 

And if there was, there may be, then, 
A time when these will cease to be. 

And so I hold the larger faith 

That Thought and Soul comprises all, 
And that for these there is no death, 

And change is immaterial. 



56 



MEMORIES. 

TN the grove down by the meadow, 
Where the cooling zephyrs blow, 

Long I've sat and watched the shadows, 
As they softly come and go — 

List'ning to the ceaseless murmur 
Of the streamlet in its flow. 

And as day with stealthy footstep, 
Softly passed from hill and dell, 

I have wandered through its pathways, 
List'ning to the measured swell - — 

Swell of music low and plaintive, 
As its cadence rose and fell. 

Well I knew the radiant maiden, 
Who at even woke that lay — 

Lay, whose calm and quiet sadness, 
Fitted well the close of day, 

And her liquid notes came stealing, 
Stealing on my heart alway. 



57 

But that grove down by the meadow, 
Where of olden time I strayed, 

Listened to the purling streamlet, 
That among the pebbles played, 

I no more at noon may wander, 
Wander 'neath its pleasant shade. 



And that maid with auburn tresses, 
Who at even woke that strain, 

That to my fever-heated spirit 
Came as soothing drops of rain, 

To her song so quaint and home-like, 
I may never list again. 

Yet their image lingers with me, 

Painted by the eldest art, 
And the shadowy semblance dwelleth, 

Dwelleth ever in my heart, 
And with every scene it mingles, 

Mingles, and doth make a part. 



58 

When alone at eve I listen, 
Half I hear low broken sighs, 

And as through the shadowy vistas, 
Scenes from other days arise, 

Half I see the honest daylight 
Beaming, of familiar eyes. 

And although such visions bring me 

But a loneliness and pain, 
Yet I would not they should leave me, 

Never to return again ; 
Dream of love, or form of beauty, 

Visits not the heart in vain. 



THE WIND. 



^HROUGH the valley, and o'er the hill, 
The wild wind wanders, at its will. 
It goes and comes, — is never still. 



59 

It wanders on, — the aimless wind, 
All of its past it leaves behind, 
To future, good or evil — blind. 

Beyond the valley and the hill, 

My thought goes forth ; against my will, 

Or day or night it is not still. 

It wanders forth, in weary quest 
Of what we dream of as the best, 
This will be found at last, — in rest. 



A MAN'S LIFE. 



TpULL threescore years and ten, — 
Well, there is time for all things 'neath the sun 
To see, enjoy and suffer. Every one 
Of all these years has something to be done, 

Or be endured, if we would live like men, — 



60 

Which we do not, God knows. 
Content are we, ignobly with the throng, 
In aimless weakness, to but float along, 
Easing our thoughts by some most idle song, 

Shifting our sails to every wind that blows ! 

"Weak are we, and we wait 
Upon occasion, till occasion flies — 
Till faith and hope, and high ambition dies ! 
Then, cheating still the impatient soul with lies, 

We say unto ourselves that such is fate ! 

- It surely is not well, 

While nature works through all her myriad spheres, 
That we should leave, of all these threescore years, 
But some few smiles and unavailing tears, 
The story of the time which was, to tell ! 

Better at once to die, 
As dies the insect in his little day, 
Than waste these lengthened years in endless play, 
Than for the treasures we have thrown away, 

Like puling children, only moan and sigh ! 



61 



Better not to have been, 
Than to be nothing where so much is wrought, 
Where for great stakes are battles bravely fought, 
And having seen all, accomplished naught ! 

The glimpses of the moon to quit — and then — 

And then ! Oh, well, what then ! 
What then shall happen little may be said — 
It may be on some marble tablet read, 
By careless wanderers o'er the voiceless dead, 

That this man lived his threescore years and ten ! 



SOMEBODY. 



T WONDER, sometimes, if somebody 
E'er thinks of somebody like me ; 

If somebody faintly remembers — 
No matter what 'twas — let it be. 



62 



'Twas only a clasp of the fingers — 
A word and a glance — and what then? 

The opening of springtime is fresher 
Than otherwise springtime had been. 

I wonder if somebody sometimes 
Goes back to some summers ago, 

Of walks 'neath the stars, in the moonlight, 
And talks that were quiet and low. 

Some summers are beautiful summers, 
Some summers are empty and chill, 

For somebody changes the summers 
From greenness to drought, at her will. 

But airs from one beautiful summer 
Have sweetened the summers of years, 

And somewhat have softened the sadness 
Of winters, made bitter with tears. 

And somewhere on earth is somebody, 
And I should much happier be 

If only I knew this somebody 

Would only but dream — dream of me. 



63 

'Twas only a dream, I remember — 
A dream — it is better 'twas so ; 

But dreams they were pleasanter, somehow, 
In summers so long, long ago. 

Tis better to dream of the sweetness 
Of life, which love's happiness fills, 

Than dream of the baker and grocer, 
And folks who torment you with bills. 

'Tis better to dream of a cottage, 
And fair, blooming children at play, 

Than dream of a crusty old landlord, 
With rent the next morning to pay. 

'Tis better, I think it is better, 

To dream pleasant dreams as you can, 

Until in a long, slow procession, 

You have the first place — in the van. 

So sometimes I find myself dreaming 
Of dreams that I dreamed long ago ; 

Of what I then dreamed of, somebody — 
Somebody I know of will know. 



64 



THE WINDS. 

T/TTHENCE comes the wind, that with its cease- 
less sighing, 

Such melancholy music makes, 
As its last wail in the dim distance dying, 

The echoes mournful answer wakes ? 
Is it some viewless messenger, replying 

To questions of the hills and shaded lakes ? 

They come at eve, with low nrysterious noises, 
As spirits, whispering in their flight ; 

Then laugh aloud, as a strong man rejoices 
In his proud consciousness of might ; 

Till weary grown, their deep and hollow voices, 
Sweep with a wail through the dark halls of night. 

Where did they learn their music, hushed and holy, 

That seemeth of our lives a part ? 
Where catch the strains they breathe to spirits lowly, 

Attuned to every fibre of the heart ? 
Or those more lofty notes, that rising grandly, slowly, 

The better purpose, strong resolve can start? 



65 



Did the deep sounds of heavenly anthems, swelling 

With more than an immortal art, 
As seraph songs celestial love were telling, 

To them the matchless gift impart ? 
Or land of song, the muses' fabled dwelling, 

Did they learn there the secrets of the heart ? 

Oh ! not from songs which angel lips have chanted, 

Which only angel lips may swell, 
Nor yet in lands by fauns and satyrs haunted, 

Eealms where the fancy loves to dwell, 
Learned they the secret, which they vainly panted — 

Vainly and long, in part to tell. 

But their weird spell is that, when hope beamed 
brightly, 

They roamed with us o'er hill and plain, 
And piped to us, when the heart's chords too tightly 

Were drawn by the harsh hands of pain, 
Till every note they touched, however lightly, 

Awaked within some well remembered strain. 



66 



THE POET'S ART. 

ft AY not, the poet's art is naught, 
And that no good to man it brings ; 

Thou surely lovest holy thought, 

That comes on fancy's gorgeous wings ; 

When in the flowing verse is wrought 
The spirit's high imaginings. 

Oh, there are comforts wide and deep 

Within the "poet's artless art !" 
A balm it brings to those that weep, 

To soothe and purify the heart ; 
'Twill angry passions lull to sleep, 

And feelings high and holy, start. 

There is no language, and no speech, 
But where its heavenly voice is heard ; 

It love to God and man doth teach, 
And hath man's inmost spirit stirred ; 

The deepest springs of action reach 

The mighty thoughts breathed through a word. 



67 

How o'er the mind's unfathomed deep, 
Its heaven-inspiring anthems roll, 

And cause the glowing thoughts to sweep, 
Like love's warm currents o'er the soul ; 

Volcanic fires that never sleep, 

But burn, and will not brook control. 

Deem not the "poet's artless art" 
Is of earth's worthless, useless things, 

When from its feeblest impulse start 
Some of its noblest, mightiest springs ; 

And there are those whose very hearts 

Thrill with its faintest whisperings. 



MIDSUMMER. 



A LONG the slopes of distant hills, 
The harvest waves its yellow hair, 
While drowsy music comes and goes 
Upon the fragrant air. 



68 



I feel its influence, as of old, 

When I, a thoughtless child, could lay 
In peace and quietness at rest 

Among the new mown hay. 

I lay my ear upon the ground, 
I feel the beating pulse of life, 

I know at heart that all is peace, 
All outwardly at strife. 

Earth's mingled harmonies I hear, 

Of bird and brook, and now and then, 

As from the hushed and distant town, 
Voices of living men. 

These are not more articulate 

Than voice of insect, bird or tree, 

For praise is going up from each, 
O Father, unto Thee. 



69 



THE POOR ATTORNEY. 

IV/TORN and evening, in an easy chair, 
Sits an attorney, sadly musing ; 

Morn, noon, and evening, sitting there, 
Blackstone, Coke and Littleton perusing, 
With an air 

Of anxious waiting, in his easy chair. 

Boots unpolished, and cravat awry, 

Feet exalted on a dingy table, 
Coat undusted, and a dreamy eye ; 

Talk of fees, to him seems all a fable. 
"By and by!" 
He uprising, mutters, with a sigh. 

Morn, and noon, and evening, " Well-a-day ! • 
It is strange that modest merit never 

Did succeed, as all old people say 
It never did ; though so very clever, 
He for aye 

Must wait till every dog has had his day. 



70 



There he sits, with hand beneath his chin, 

Hears the winds about the casements humming ; 

Hopes, to cheer him, some one may drop in, 
Wonders when the good time is a-coming. 
Pale and thin ! 

Sits there with his hand beneath his chin. 



Dreams he has dreamed till he is gray, 
Each dream has in its turn betrayed him, 

And their ghosts seem mockingly to say, 
"Ample propositions hope once made him. 
Law's delay 

Has turned the poor attorney gray." 



So he sits there ; the good God doth know 
How his rent and tailor's bills he's paying ; 

Ne'er on him did prosperous breezes blow, 

Or swell his sails, while he a-wanton straying : 
Why 'tis so, 

Poor attorney, the good God doth know. 



71 



So he sits there, let us hope that still, 
"They also serve who only stand and wait ;" 

Who "shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will/ ' 
The partial goddess, Fortune called, or Fate, 
Yet may fill 

His cup with good, although he sitteth still. 



THE NEW YEAR, 1873. 



"V/TTE hail the year with shouts and cheers, 
And all the bells ring merry chimes, — 

With smiles and laughter, not with tears, 
We mark the changes of the times. 

We hold strong faith, the new shall bring 
Something the niggard old kept back — 

That the warm sunshine of the Spring 
Shall bring us much of good w r e lack. 



72 



And so with hope and courage strong, 

We stand to meet the coming days, 
For nights are short and days are long, 

And life has many pleasant ways. 

Aye, life has many ways which tend 

Toward light, toward darkness, tears and smiles ; 
In night and clouds the year may end, 

Or we may reach the happy isles. 

O ! New, New Year, we would not see 
What we may lose or what may gain, 

Keep sealed thy pages until we 

Have felt each pleasure or each pain. 

Enough it is for us to bear 

Each day its labor, and its loss, 
This day has quite enough of care, — 

The year we would not look across. 

Far better trust and trusting, fail, 

Than know of failures in advance, 
We may surrender, may prevail, 

It may be fate, it may be chance. 



73 



And yet we hold the larger faith, 
That the great chain is held by Him, 

The Lord of life, the Lord of death, 
To whom is nothing dark or dim. 

And so we face the solemn years, 
And wait and work in faith until, 

Who sends us smiles, who counts our tears, 
Says to this troubled life, "Be still." 



SHADOWS. 



"^THERESO'ER I may abide, 
Morn and noon, and even-tide 
O'er my soul dark shadows glide. 

Muse as lightly as I may, 
When I watch and when I pray, 
At the nightfall and by day ! 



74 

Coming without breath or word, 
Flitting o'er me all unheard, 
Like the wing of some dark bird ! 

Shadows strange of coming ill 

All my future seem to fill, 

And life's present pleasures chill. 

They are shadows well I know, 

Stretching from the long-ago, 

And they bring me naught but woe. 

They are shadows, pale and thin, 
Yet their long arms fold me in : 
They are shadows of my sin. 



MEMORIAL HYMN. 



TN gardens and woodlands we garner, 
The roses and violets bring, 

And cover the graves of our heroes, 
With all the sweet glories of Spring. 



75 

We gather with music and banners, 
And hallow one day of the year 

To those whom a love of the country 
Made stronger than terror or fear. 

Ah, well ! if we only should nourish 
The virtues we eulogize so, 

Our hearts would be softer at seasons ■ 
Earth carry less burdens of woe. 



MY MOTHER. 



IV/TY Mother, when alone at eventime 
I listen to the night-wind's sigh, 

And to the bell's low solemn chime, 
I ever dream that thou art nigh. 

I in each breeze that passes by 

Fancy thou'rt whispering me from heaven, 
And to the stars in the pure sky, 

Will thoughts of love and thee be given. 



76 

Aye, when at eventime alone, 
Sweet music melts upon the air, 

It seems to take the very tone, 

That taught to me my childhood's prayer. 

My childhood's prayer ! Oh, every flower 
Brings back that simple prayer to me, 

As when in childhood's buoyant hour, 
I lisped it at my mother's knee ! 

Thy voice I ever seem to hear, 
In accents thrilling, soft, and low, 

And the bright thought that thou art near, 
Sends back the tear that fain would flow. 



FRANK UPTON. 



TXTHY should we mourn or murmur or complain 
Because he passed before us to that peace and calm 

Which is not ruffled or disturbed by pain — 
Where is no need of any healing balm ? 



77 



We yet shall see him though we know not how ; 

E'en at our feet the healing waters glide, 
Thro' which he passed so gently, standing now 

Erect and strong upon the other side. 

'Tis but a little while that we must wait ; 

And though we wait in sorrow and in pain, 
Yet angel hands shall ope at last the gate, 

And we shall clasp him in our arms again. 

So we will wait in patience, and be still 
For the good Shepherd knoweth what is best ; 

With folded hands we say, "It is His will," 
And so in quiet trust our hearts find rest. 

January 21st , 1870. 



FRANK POOLE. 

HPHE wisest, bravest, can but claim 
A laurel wreath, to crown his head. 

All left with us is but a name — 

A sound — e'en of our lordliest dead. 



78 

But unto him who with us wrought 
In life's more unobtrusive way, 

We tribute pay in kindly thought, 

And what he sought for — modest praise. 

So nature's humblest flowers we strew 
Above this head, which lies at rest ; 

His spirit in calm peace will know 
The humblest offering is the best. 

February y 1871. 



DANVERS. 

M. F. D. 

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God. 

TTTHE cannot know His ways 
Who marks the little sparrow in its flight, 
Who counts the number of our earthly days ; 

But she sees in His light. 



79 

We cannot tell how deep 
His love, who kisses, even unto pain ; 
Who unto His beloved giveth sleep, 

That they may wake again. 

We cannot tell how wide 
His wisdom, through whom all things live and grow, 
But in His season we shall stand beside 

Our sister, and shall know. 

March 19, 1871. 



MARY POPE. 



T KNOW how cheap is rhyme ; 

That words mean nothing, save that one word — 
death. 
Eternity is but a name for time ; 

The sounding air is nothing — but for breath. 

And so I could not brook 
To utter empty words of condolence, 



80 



When the Inscrutable looked down and took 

One of the fairest and best beloved ones hence. 

Oh, no ! life's weary tramp 

Leads us to places where no words are said, — 
Beside the fires of a deserted camp, 

Or gazing on the faces of our dead. 

Of what avail is speech, 

s Or words of comfort when the soul is deaf ? 
There is no balm in sound that e'er can reach 
The aching of the heart, beyond relief. 

We can but close our lips 

And shut the book, and say that this is past ; 
E'en as the ocean keeps her foundered ships 

In her great depths, in silence deep and vast. 

And so in simple faith 

We lock our hearts in patience, and we wait, 
Trusting that when we pass what we call death, 

Some one will meet us at the " pearly gate." 

November, 1872. 



*108 #« 



81 

THE PEABODY FOUNTAIN. 

TT stands just in front of the depot, 
And drizzles and drizzles all day, 

And people of taste ask each other, 
" Why do they not take it away?" 

It stands just in front of the depot, 
Too large for the locus by half, — 

And people of humor look at it, 
And look at each other, and laugh. 

And people of sense looking at it, 
And viewing the water it sheds, 

Ask why the wood grows in the forest 
If not to be made into heads. 











,0* c«JL %"V 



T7T*' «\ 



♦bv? 



% 








4V %*. 















4» A* **« 






**'*« 





V^>° 




V 






<V^ 






^ AT • J 

4 -ay ^^ 

■a? *»•*-' 






-. y% i^p.- /\ : ..hk. ; /\ 

^ ** va&- ^ ** ^ 




yVERT 
BOOKBINDING 

Gran<viM«, Pa, 
Sept— Oct 1985 



